


No Dominion

by KatieHavok



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Additional Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Battlefield, Character Death, Death Rituals, Dragons, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Post-Movie 1: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, Wakes & Funerals, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 07:42:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9374912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatieHavok/pseuds/KatieHavok
Summary: She sits there for hours, or perhaps seconds. She isn’t aware of the passing of time, but she knows the candle has burned down to a stub. She knows it was day when she arrived, and that they were well into the night now. Worse still, she knows her silent vigil means little in the end. You can’t bring back the dead, and it’s a lesson she had learned young.





	1. Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Diggy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diggy/gifts).



> I AM SO SORRY GUYS.  
> For Diggy, who cheered me on every step of the way, and offered her services as a beta.

*

There is a low light smoldering on the horizon. It isn’t anything as poetic as a sunset.

Tina finds the camp entirely wanting, and can’t find the energy to be disappointed. She had hoped a change of environment would produce a break from the unrelenting _mud_ that a German April seems to bring, but there is mud in her boots and mud in her hair and she is quite certain she has mud in her mouth, as well.

Tina checks her crude map and squinted into the lowering dark, ears pricked for a familiar voice. A whistle sounded next to her, and she turned her head to find a tent blazing in the dark. Inside, a familiar steel-gray head bent together with a younger, darker one, and Tina knows she had found the place.

Percival Graves nods in curt greeting when she entered, while the darker figure stood to greet her. He sports a bronze complexion, a smattering of freckles across his nose, and dark hair that gleams with oil. Tina starts and does a double-take, staring dumbly before remembering the name she’s been given for him. _He looks like his brother_ , she thinks, and smothers a pang at the thought.

Theseus Scamander clasps her hand in greeting, his grip dry and hard. There’s no recognition in his gaze when she gives her name, so she turns her attention to the task at hand and focuses on her duty. It is easy to push the feelings down, now that she’s had years of experience doing it. 

She makes her contributions and helps to outline what she’s learned of enemy movements, and is pleasantly surprised when many of her suggestions are given the full weight of consideration. She knows Graves trusts her in this; she just hasn’t counted on her thoughts contributing to their plans. It’s nice to be recognized, and she isn’t too jaded to appreciate it.

It isn’t until later, when she sits unenthusiastically eating a tasteless ration, that a steel plate lands besides her and a dark shape slumps behind it. 

“Goldstein,” he nods in greeting, before shoveling an indefinable gray _something_ into his mouth and grimacing. Tina isn’t sure if he’s sought her out to observe or to interact, so she returns to her meal and keeps a careful eye on him.

“So—you and my brother.” Theseus says finally, and Tina is unable to contain the roll of her eyes. She deliberately sets her food aside, brushing off her hands before turning to face him fully. She needs to tread carefully here.

“Yes,” she says coolly, and she knows it’s a bad idea to appear to challenge a man who outranks her but she can’t seem to refrain herself. This is an old hurt, one she has long since thought resolved, and she isn’t keen to revisit it. Not now, on the eve of battle. “Your brother and I were, at one point, _somewhat_ involved. However, I haven’t seen him in almost three years, and I haven’t heard from him in well over a year. I don’t even know if he’s still alive.”

Theseus lifts his hands in a placating gesture, and the mannerism is so reminiscent of Newt that Tina stops and wilts. He chances a small smile, and that too makes her ache. “He’s still alive,” he tells her, and Tina has to ruthlessly school her expression. Hope blooms in her chest, hot and bright, but is extinguished by doubt. _Why hasn’t he written?_

Theseus seems to read this on her, because his smile vanishes. “He was deep behind enemy lines for a long while, Goldstein. It was sprung onto him quite suddenly. I’m afraid it’s rather my fault—I suggested him for the task, and he accepted readily when we asked it of him. He’s only recently returned, and he’s received a promotion for his troubles. I expect he should be writing you soon, if he hasn’t already.”

He checks his watch before looking around carefully. He drops his voice for this next bit, and Tina has to lean closer to hear him. She is dismayed to find that he smells much like Newt—sweat, sunshine, and bitter herbs—and is aghast when she leans into the scent. “Meet me in the Air Commodore’s tent in one hour,” he murmurs as he gathers his things. “I may have a surprise for you, as well as a place for you to...enjoy it.”

Theseus sweeps away and Tina watches him go, thoughts whirling.

* *

An hour later finds Tina once again outside the Air Commodore’s tent. There are voices within, one deep and masculine, the other softer. Less assuming. Tina thinks she knows that voice.

She sweeps the tent flap aside, and Theseus looks up at her. Besides him, facing away from Tina, stands a tall man in the deep blue uniform worn by members of the Dragon Squadron. There’s a braided band denoting rank on his shoulders, and the short cape of an actual _rider_ falls to mid-back. The man keeps talking for a moment or two until he realizes that Theseus’ attentions are no longer on him. Then he makes a disgruntled noise and turns, and Tina feels acutely the chasm of time and secrets between them.

It is her Newt, but in some indefinable way, it isn’t. The skin on his face is deeply tanned, and his eyes have faded to a pale blue. These aren’t her lover's eyes—these are hard and cold as chips as ice, wholly attuned to their surroundings, and they snap over her in recrimination before focusing on her face and _widening_. Tina has seen the same look in her own reflection, and she can’t hold this against him—but it further emphasizes the years and the miles that have passed, and she can’t help but quail under that knowledge.

His body is thinner and more wiry, but that doesn’t matter when he waits a beat, two, seeming to switch mental gears—and then crosses the room in three long strides to embrace her.

“Tina,” he breathes, and his arms are just as welcome around her as she remembers. He’s frowning when he pulls away, and it only deepens when he examines her face. “You’ve lost weight you could _ill_ afford to lose, Tina,” and the tone is so scandalized and so much like the man she once knew that she almost laughs. Almost. Instead, she gives him a pale imitation of a smile, the best she can muster with her heart attempting to pound out of her chest. Her poor attempt seems to placate him because his face softens and he cups her cheek in his hand.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, tipping his forehead against her. He closes his eyes and they breathe together, as they used to do. Then he steps back and turns to his brother, assuming perfect parade-rest posture. “If there’s nothing else…?” he asks, and Theseus passes him a heavy brass key. Newt takes it, looking confused.

“The cabin,” Theseus says simply, and Tina watches as the tip of Newt’s ears turn pink. “Neither of you are needed until noon tomorrow. Be here for 0900. I’ll cover your absence with your ranking officers. Take some provisions and go.” He waves a laconic hand and bends to his paperwork.

Newt’s hand curls around her arm and he risks a smile. She smiles back, tentatively, and he disapparates them away.

* * *

The cabin turns out to be an _actual_ cabin, with a tiny bathroom and a single large room that serves as kitchen, sitting room and bedroom.

Bemused, Tina takes a moment to look around while Newt pops in and out, bearing rations and bedding from the Commanders tents. _One bed_ , she notes, and doesn’t try to tamp the fissure of excitement that runs through her. She groans happily when she spots the full-size claw-foot bathtub, and directs a scouring charm at it before filling it with steaming water.

“Do what you want,” she tells Newt as she begins to shrug out of her uniform. “I’m taking a bath. I’m tired of the cold and the mud.” 

He nods and loosens his cape, losing his jacket and lowering his braces before sending the pile of her clothes to a corner, where they magically start to wash, press and mend themselves. His own garments are sent to an opposite corner, and he trails after her.

Tina sighs appreciatively as she lowers herself into the water, skin flushing pink with the heat. He trips into the room, armed with a towel and a rough bar of soap, and the entire scene is so reminiscent of their time together _before_ the war, before separation and unanswered letters and _longing_ , that Tina smiles properly for the first time in weeks. He drops his eyes, suddenly bashful, and speaks to the floor.

“You forgot these,” he says, and he places the towel on a ledge before approaching her. “Can’t get very clean without the soap,” and Tina snorts in rueful acknowledgement. He hands her the bar and Tina doesn’t miss the way his hard new eyes lingers on her body, taking her in. He raises his head after a while, finding her gaze and holding it. There’s a question and a plea there.

Tina touches his wrist and passes him the soap. “Wash my back?” she asks softly as she leans forward. He does, and there is nothing clinical in the brush of his hand over her skin. He shows the same care when she dunks her head and allows him to wash her short hair. When she turns her head and catches him in a kiss, he does a thorough job of that, too, leaving her breathless and dizzy.

He helps her out of the tub and dries her off, paying special attention to her hidden crevices. She transfigures her towel into a nightgown while Newt takes his own quick bath—frowning as her imagined sturdy white shift turns into a diaphanous _something_ instead—and she pulls it over her head while he dries himself. “I like that,” he says simply once it’s on, and she knows he means it.

The nightgown highlights and obscures in equal measure, and his eyes soften as he takes her in. “I like that _very much_ ,” he repeats, so Tina takes his hand and pulls him to bed.


	2. Death

*

His eyes are new, but his mouth is familiar.

They kiss across the length of the cabin, and Newt offers no resistance when she pushes him onto the bed. Tina climbs into his lap and their hands and mouths and fingers are everywhere. She reacquaints herself with his scars, tasting them to confirm their reality; he smooths his hands over her narrow curves, gaze unbelieving and worshipful as she unfurls over him.

Her gown falls around them in filmy waves when she mounts him from above, strong thighs flexing against his narrow hips. She rocks over him until she trembles and stills, head falling back to gasp her adorations to the air. He waits until the shudders release her before flipping them, one hand circling the strong column of her neck. He bares his teeth against her throat as he rolls his hips into her, slow and firm. He brings her to the edge a second time, and follows her over it.

They sleep in crossing beams of moonlight until she wakes him with tender kisses. They lie twined together and speak as lovers do—about their families, how much they’ve missed each other, and mundane, daily things. They do not speak of the war around them, and they do not speak of the time they had no contact. Tina doesn’t need an answer or explanation; she need only know that it was something Newt felt he _had_ to do, and she can accept that. Besides, there is no need for words when she can read his heart.

When language fails, hands take their place in storytelling. They wrap around each other and communicate in cries and gasps and punctured moans, shared in the space between them. Newt removes her nightgown and maps every inch of her skin with his hands and mouth. Tina swallows his cries and holds him when he falters, when he stutters under the onslaught of memories of the last time they had done this. 

They share intense eye contact at the end, and she notes distantly that his eyes are _his own_ again, and not those of a war-battered stranger.

In the milky light of dawn, Tina stands by the window and accepts that their time together is coming to an end. Newt kisses her shoulder as he joins her, then turns his gaze outward. She struggles with several false-starts before she manages to say what she needs to, unable to look him in the face.

“Jacob and Queenie are in Paris,” and she sees him turn to watch her carefully. “I’ll be out there on the front, and if I get hurt, or if I die—tell them I died for a cause that I believe in, and that I died doing the right thing. Can you do that for me, Newt?” She hears him swallow and she catches his miserable nod from the corner of her eye. Mollified, she is able to turn and face him.

He is pale but composed when he takes her left hand in his own. He trails over her third finger, where a ring would sit if things had been different in their world. “When you return to me,” he begins in a hoarse voice, “will you allow me to rectify my mistake? Will you grant me the honor of accepting my name, until the day comes when we no longer walk this earth?” He blows a slow breath out through his nose and closes his eyes, throat working. “If I don’t come back, please tell my family that I _died_ to protect those that I _love_.” He opens his eyes and they are still his own. “Tell them that includes you.” Then he leans forward to capture her mouth, washing away the necessary goodbyes.

She pulls him to bed, and she loves him. For the last and final time, she loves him.

* *

Spells and hexes fly through the air, whizzing by in close proximity, but Newt is unphased. So is his mount, whom he’s raised from a hatchling, and who has been involved in the war effort her entire short life. They’re in the final push of the campaign, and the air is thick with threat and the smell of burning. Despite this, Dorkus rests easy beneath him, and Newt loosens his harness so he can better reach her.

“That’s a good girl,” he soothes, rubbing the plates of her spine in a manner he knows she enjoys. She chirrups beneath him, and maneuvers to grant them a higher vantage point. Newt clucks approvingly.

He turns his attention to his men below, analyzing on the fly with a tacticians expertise. This isn’t his first battle, and it isn’t his first time leading the offense. Experience doesn’t make it any easier to watch his beasts and men throw themselves into the direct line of fire though, and he keeps his wand clasped loosely in his dominant hand while he watches. He feels every apparent injury and loss, and thinks painfully about the sheer amount of letters he’ll be required to write once the fighting is done.

He never gets the chance to lift a quill.

His mount tenses and whirls beneath him, and suddenly there’s a Hungarian Horntail there, with a rider in enemy uniform, too smug and far too close. The enemy rider points his hand at Dorkus while intoning a curse, and Newt reacts purely on instinct: he pulls Dorkus to reign, intent on protecting her from harm—and the spell slams into his chest, knocking him from her back.

His wand is snapped from his fingers as Newt tumbles helplessly through the blue air. His good and faithful Dorkus senses the loss and reacts, but not quickly enough. She blasts the enemy rider from his mount, and Newt experiences a moment of vicious pleasure as the man falls, body a smoldering ruin. Then his girl is diving toward him, snout pointed and wings folded against her back for maximum speed, but he can tell that she’s too far away, and his _wand_ is too far away, and the ground rushes toward him, _entirely too quickly_ —

Newt digs deep for the instinctive core of his magic, but his panic and fear get in the way. He tries to draw a deep breath but the air is snatched from his lungs with the velocity of his fall. He closes his eyes and _reaches_ , and the magic is there but it’s sluggish and unresponsive _and there are leaves rushing by his head he can hear and smell them_ —

Dorkus _roars_ , and he knows what that sound heralds. He feels her paw swipe desperately at the air where he was a split-second before, and Newt feels a sense of relief as he realizes he’s about to die—because in this moment, he can do nothing but accept his fate.

He opens his eyes mere feet from the scraggly remains of a garden. He can see the early spring beetles trundling over the leaves, and the remains of frost in the shadowed corner. The ground rushes toward him, uncaring to his plight.

_My Tina_ , he thinks, and sees her radiant visage when he closes his eyes. He even manages a smile, here at the end of it all.

_Tina Tina **Tina I’m sor**_ —

Newt’s dragon impacts seconds after he does, hard enough to send the earth up in a tidal wave as she _bellows_ her dismay. She lumbers to what’s left of her rider, broken and bloody on the ground, and wraps protectively around him.

* * *

Tina is on the other end of camp when the news arrives.

She sees the flurry of activity around the Air Commodore’s tent and is mildly intrigued, but she’s heavily involved in smacking the mud out of her boots and she can’t really spare the energy to wonder what’s going on. She is worn-down beyond measure, and her constant worries about Newt don’t help. Her only reprieve is that she knows he is similarly burdened, so she shoulders it with all the good grace she can muster. That doesn’t make dealing with the mud any easier.

She’s almost finished when a man stumbles to a halt before her, puffing with exertion. He quickly straightens and snaps off a smart salute. “Goldstein,” he says, and his broad Irish accent turns her name into something almost exotic. “The Air Commodore requires your immediate presence.” Tina smothers a sigh and dons her boots. She is _exhausted_ , and crossing the encampment seems a daunting task. “Lead the way,” she instructs tiredly, and trudges after him.

Exhaustion is exchanged for adrenaline when she approaches the tent and sees the absolute bustle of activity around it. She’s used to working on the front-lines, and she knows the typical ebb-and-flow between engagements. This is a time when things should be winding down, but the fevered pitch tells her that something is fundamentally wrong.

Things don’t improve when she pulls the flap aside, and she finds Theseus Scamander collapsed in a chair, bowed head held in trembling hands. There is a parchment on the table in front of him, hastily scrawled words tumbling across the fine sheaf. The border of the parchment is black, and Tina swallows and swallows as the bottom drops out of her stomach. She grips the pole of the tent for support, hard enough to embed splinters in her palm. She doesn’t notice.

Tina must have made a sound, because Theseus lifts his ravaged face and makes eye contact. “Leave us,” he instructs those around him, and they obey with a haste born of deep respect. Tina hardly notices; she can’t find it in her to feel anything but crippling hollowness, as the realization of her worst fears comes to life in Theseus’ eyes. Tina chokes as she gapes at the man before her.

He lifts the parchment and waves it in her general direction. “You know what this is?” he asks horsely, and Tina doesn’t respond because she _cannot_. The knowledge blocks her throat, and to talk would be to make it real, and she isn’t sure she can survive under the weight of that knowing. He nods anyways. “My brother has fallen in battle,” and his eyes are bright with tears. In this moment, they are Newt’s eyes, and Tina has to close her own lest she crumble. 

“Apparently it happened yesterday, but they didn’t realize because his dragon—she wouldn’t—“ Theseus droops his head, inhaling through his nose. “They couldn’t _get to him_ because she went on-guard, and by the time they could, there was nothing they could do.”

Time seems to stop around them. Tina thinks of her Newt, all freckles and golden eyes and gloriously wondrous smiles. She thinks of the man she arrested and the man she fell in love with and the man she made love _to_ , and she thinks of a dragon coiling around him protectively in death. She thinks it a fitting tribute, as much as she _allows_ herself to think of it. Because she was so brittle before, and this could break her if she allows it.

“Can I see him?” she asks, after a lifetime has flashed before her eyes. Theseus sniffles and wipes his eyes with the back of his hands, and the motion is so reminiscent of _Newt_ that Tina has to lock her chest down against sudden nausea. He nods once, sharply, and whistles for the messenger to rejoin them in the tent. Then he takes Tina’s arm with another murmured apology, and sweeps them away.


	3. Rebirth

*

The body on the cot is Newt’s, but it isn’t _her Newt_.

Tina finds she can’t look at it directly, and it has nothing to do with the fact that the fundamental _shape_ of it has been altered. It has nothing to do with the blood she can see crowning his head and splashed across his face, or the bruises that didn’t have the chance to form.  
It has everything to do with the physical weight of death in the room. It smothers her. Her eyes refuse to take it all in, so instead she keeps to the outline of the form: the dirt of battle that grimes the fingernails; the singed and filthy hair atop the head; the altered outline of limbs, no longer riding easily against each other but broken and bent to unnatural angles.

Theseus had gone in before her, and bolted out soon after to retch into the bushes by the door. He attempted to warn her of how awful it would be, but every time he opened his mouth he produced only miserably strangled sounds. Eventually, Tina had pushed past him and gone to see for herself. She froze on the threshold of the room that held him, sudden bravado gone, and had to close her eyes and dig deep ( _he wouldn’t want this you’re stronger than this **you can do this**_ ) and moved to sit next to what remained of the man she loved.

She sits there for hours, or perhaps seconds. She isn’t aware of the passing of time, but she knows the candle has burned down to a stub. She knows it was day when she arrived, and that they were well into the night now. Worse still, she knows her silent vigil means little in the end. You can’t bring back the dead, and it’s a lesson she had learned young.

A footfall sounds, and Tina turns her dull eyes to find a young woman standing there. She is apologetic yet firm when she explains that Tina must leave—they must wash and prepare the body for travel. He’s to be returned to England for a full burial, she goes on, by order of the Minister of Magic himself, and the stasis charms need refreshing. Surely Tina can understand.

The girl is shifting uncomfortably by the time Tina thinks of a suitable reply, and she doesn’t recognize the sound of her own voice.

“I’ll do it.”

The girl starts to say something, and then nods slowly, unwilling to argue. She takes a quick step back when Tina stands, then cants her head in a familiar listening posture that send another wave of grief through Tina. She stuffs it down ruthlessly.

“Please bring me a pitcher of water, a cloth, and some oil. Something scented. Lavender, if you have it. I’m going to do this without magic, if I can. He deserves that.”

The woman leaves and returns with the requested items, then sets them gently on the table. She quietly exits the room, and Tina bows her head to gather her will. She patiently submerges her grief, calling on experience taught by loss of her parents, and once she’s sure she can remain calm she sets to work.

She strips him without magic, but must use it to set his uniform to cleaning and mending itself. Once he is naked before her and Tina sees him fully, her blunted emotions seem to transmit to her from a far-off land. She is no healer and no mortician, but she knows enough magic to lift her wand and set his body to rights. She finds it easier to look at him once his head is no longer crushed to one side, his limbs no longer bent.

Starting at his crown, she dips and wrings the flannel and swipes it over him, impossibly gentle. His hair alone requires three changes of water, and she’s disappointed to learn that she must use her magic to refill the pitcher. But she perseveres, and when she is finished, every inch of him—from front to back, side to side—is clean. She’s even manages to work the grime out from under his fingernails, and to comb his curls back from his brow.

In the low light of the candle, he appears to be sleeping.

Once he is clean to her satisfaction, she uses the lavender oil to dab his forehead, the still spot over his heart, and the third finger on his left hand. She rubs the oil into his strange new skin until she can no longer feel it. Then she kisses each of these places, breathing her love into him one last time.

 

She redresses him in his uniform by hand, and is careful to set his collar and insignia perfectly. She ties his boots and arranges his arms and legs. Her last task is to fold his hands over his abdomen; that done, she steps away slowly, suddenly at a loose end.

She doesn’t feel the vicious kink in her lower back, and she doesn’t see that the sun has once again risen. She can’t _feel_ the shattered remains of her heart cutting into her lungs, stealing them of breath, but she is distantly aware that a large amount of time has slipped from her, and she knows that she is _exhausted_. She still has some reserves left though, so she kisses the corner of his mouth, breathing in the scent of lavender and fall leaves that clings to him.

“Goodbye, Newt,” she manages, and that’s when the tears start to fall.

* *

They bury Newt on a beautiful spring day, the sky a flawless blue arch above them.

He is given the full honors promised by the Minister, but it all seems hollow and plastic to Tina, who sits between Theseus and his parents. The entirety of the Scamander clan is stoic. Tina fits right in, with her dry eyes and firmly-set jaw.

She is asked to speak, but she knows she does a poor job of it. She cannot put into the words the Newt-shaped hole in her soul, and the pain that loss leaves behind. She cannot tell them of the man who allowed her, and only her, to see every facet of his life. There are no words to express her love for him, so she stumbles through with tales of adventures before the war, before mud and loss and pain, and she leaves the crowd wondering. She doesn’t care.

She is allowed a moment with the casket, and into it she tucks a lock of her hair, their first letters confessing their shared love, and a new letter just for him. It seems fitting. Their love began with a chance meeting but was confirmed and solidified through long dispatches exchanged over years. It hurts her to lose even one of those cherished messages, but she thinks she can live with the pain.

She’s learning first-hand that a human can survive formerly unimaginable losses.

After, when the crowds have dispersed, Theseus takes her aside. He has a book of photographs for her, Newt through the years and stages of his life, the last few pages featuring herself as well. He also has their rings, and a rolled-up slip of parchment with an official stamp. Tina isn’t ready for the confrontation but he saves her by handing over the items and asking a single question: “How long?”

Tina pushes a lock of hair behind her ear, careful to avoid his eyes. “Since before I returned to England, the last time. He insisted we keep it quiet because he didn’t want to paste a target on my back. I thought you knew, but realized you didn’t when you interrogated me a few weeks ago. We were going to tell everyone after...well, after. I’m sorry.”

Theseus swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, and his voice is thick. “I’ll ensure you get full benefits. I’ll see to it that the rights of his estate are passed to you. My parents won’t be an issue, they’re too broken to object, and they love you besides. My brother would be apoplectic if we did not see to his widow properly.”

Tina is too choked up to speak so she simply nods. Theseus clasps her shoulder once, hands achingly familiar for all they are different, and leaves her alone. Tina pushes the simple gold band onto her finger, and reverently places Newt’s larger band on the same chain that carries her locket. Then she stands, hands clasped, in the copse of trees while the crowd thins and disappears, and eventually she leaves too.

* * *

Tina returns to Paris and the welcome embrace of her sister with little fanfare.

She settles in with her sister and her husband and, for the first time in years, finds that she has no demands placed upon her. The war still rages but the Ministry is looking the other way; MACUSA has granted her indefinite leave, and she isn’t sure how she feels about that. She is tired and restless and _gray_ in a way that is utterly foreign to her, and in her lowest moments she wishes for an excuse to vent her spleen on someone.

She sleeps more than is probably healthy and finds herself put off by food. Queenie and Jacob are wonderful but they are not _Newt_ , and they cannot draw her out of her misery. Worse still, the effects of her grief on her body worsen, as May turns to June, and her sister nags and worries until Tina relents and visits a healer.

She receives news there that rocks her to her foundation, and brings the smallest sliver of color back into her life.

Tina spends a few days after her realization in a twilight state between grief and adulation, and miserably feeling guilty for both. She’s gotten quite skilled at Occulmancy but she can’t keep Queenie out forever, and when her sisters pries this new secret from her head, they share a good cry before Queenie insists on doting on her. Tina agrees for the health of herself and the secret she carries, and then plunges into guilt-ridden misery for every slight moment of happiness or relief she feels.

“He wouldn’t want that,” Queenie says after some days of this, and she directs her soft gaze to Tina. “He would want you both to be happy and healthy. Tina, you’re allowed to be joyous about this, because it means a part of him is still _alive_.”

Those simple words go far to shatter the walls Tina’s built up around herself, and after a cleansing cry— _I’d better get used to this_ , she thinks once her sniffles have quieted. _I’m in for a few more months of it_ —she composes herself and scribes a quick letter to Theseus. It seems somehow fitting that he be the first of the Scamanders to know.

He sends back a parcel containing, amongst other things, the stuffed Hippogriff Newt carried as a child. He also insists on seeing Tina, and she goes to visit him that week. Eventually, they settle into a pattern of regular visits with tea and biscuits, as summer wanes and the world cools. While Tina’s waist expands, accommodating the new presence within, they both take the first slow steps toward healing.

Then comes a morning in early January when Tina awakens from sound sleep to sharp, glassy pains. She has been prepared for weeks so she sees herself off to the hospital, determined to face this latest challenge alone. There is no one there to hold her hand as she sweats and strains, but toward the end she could _swear_ that strong arms wrap around her, that soothing words in a beloved voice sound in her ear.

She attributes it to exhaustion, intent on her task, and their child comes into the world on a tide of blood and tears.

Her daughter is wrinkled and frowning when the mid-witch places her in Tina’s arms, and she decides that it’s the most beautiful sight she’s ever seen. The baby has her skin and build, but her eyes and hair and jaw are every inch her father. The baby hiccups, then calms and gazes at her before dozing, perfectly content and unaware of the pain and love that had gone into bringing her to this point.

“Hello,” Tina breathes, and she thinks she may be crying but she isn’t sure. The baby sleeps on, supremely unconcerned. Tina shifts to lay back against the pillow, cradling her child, _their_ child, and tilts her head back. “Artemis,” she tells the air, and the breeze that flows through the room feels approving. “Her name will be Artemis Scamander, and she will know her father’s face because she will see it every day in her own.”

Tina closes her eyes, seeing her Newt in her mind: smiling at her as he cleans up after the creatures in the case; frowning over some correspondence or another, quill grasped firmly between his teeth; taking her hand in secret and slipping a slim gold band on her third finger, murmuring promises he would always do his best to keep; straining over her in the dark, pressed into her and gasping adorations; a thousand more, all at once, all glowing with joyous recollection.

“Newt,” Tina says in wonder, and she opens her eyes to gaze straight into the sky. “Newt, look at what we’ve done.”

*

_And death shall have no dominion._   
_Dead man naked they shall be one_   
_With the man in the wind and the west moon;_   
_When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,_   
_They shall have stars at elbow and foot;_   
_Though they go mad they shall be sane,_   
_Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;_   
_Though lovers be lost love shall not;_   
_And death shall have no dominion._

_And death shall have no dominion._   
_Under the windings of the sea_   
_They lying long shall not die windily;_   
_Twisting on racks when sinews give way,_   
_Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;_   
_Faith in their hands shall snap in two,_   
_And the unicorn evils run them through;_   
_Split all ends up they shan't crack;_   
_And death shall have no dominion._

_And death shall have no dominion._  
 _No more may gulls cry at their ears_  
 _Or waves break loud on the seashores;_  
 _Where blew a flower may a flower no more_  
 _Lift its head to the blows of the rain;_  
 _Though they be mad and dead as nails,_  
 _Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;_  
 _Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,_  
 _And death shall have no dominion._  
\- Dylan Thomas


End file.
